Toujours
by candy4yourEYEZ
Summary: Francis goes to England to visit Arthur, expecting a normal argument and- all in all- an entertaining visit. What he does not expect, however, is to find Arthur crying his eyes out. France x England / FrUk at the end


Francis entered Arthur's home, expecting to find the man drinking tea or reading Shakespeare, or something equally British and stuffy. Instead, the proud nation of England was curled in an overlarge armchair, sobbing quietly.

"_Mon cher_?" Francis was worried, but tried not to show it in his voice. Arthur of all people was crying; Francis couldn't show weakness as well! "_Mon cher_," he repeated softly, resting a hand tentatively on the other man's quivering shoulder. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"

He was answered with nothing but a continuation of the sobs from before, not quieting, but increasing in volume and violence. Arthur was now shaking, convulsing with the force of his anguish. Francis furrowed his brows in confusion, and, sighing, decided to remedy the situation. He bent down and picked the smaller nation up, then sat down in the now-vacated chair and cradled the blonde in his lap.

"_Sil-te-plait, cher_, tell me what's wrong? How can I argue with you like normal and insult your cooking and horrendous eyebrows with you crying too hard to retort?" Francis rocked him gently, and Arthur responded to his half-question half-taunt with a choked noise that may have been a laugh.

"It's," he managed to gasp out, "it's s-stupid, really." He curled closer into Francis, burying his head in the soft material of the other man's shirt and consequently soaking it with tears. "A, a r-really stupid thing t-to be sad about, after everything I- everything we've been through." A single sentence, punctuated with small gasps and hiccups and choked back tears, and weakness that Francis had rarely seen the other nation show. Normally, Arthur was as vicious as a cornered wolf, lashing out at anyone who dared intrude into his mind, heart, or space. But today there was a rare chink in his emotional wall, a chink that Francis intended to exploit for all it was worth. A peek into Arthur's mind was a rare gift, one almost never found, not in quiet mornings after passionate nights, nor in the brief moments in which the sun shone upon the normally gloomy countryside, not even when Arthur had drunk enough that he would babble about whatever came to mind.

Normally it was only one topic that drove Arthur to such depths of emotion, and Francis resigned himself to another rant about America. But the expected torrent never came, and Francis opened his eyes wide in shock as Arthur trod a completely different path than the one most used.

"They're almost all gone," he whispered, "and they won't come back. The ones nowadays aren't real, they just think it's a pastime and pursue it as such. All the real ones are gone."

"Who?" Francis was bemused, he had no idea what Arthur was talking about, or even if his rambling was about a specific subject.

"Who do you think, Francis? Most of them only wanted to help, and they were burned for their troubles. They were scorned, despised, and slaughtered. I'm probably the only one left now, the only one that knows the old ways. The druids, the wiccans, the… the witches." Arthur paused, and tilted his head upwards to meet Francis' eyes. Francis inhaled sharply. Arthur's emerald eyes almost glowed in the dark, suddenly seemed deep and mysterious, holding centuries of knowledge and secrets none would ever know, lit from behind by a light that was not-of-this-world. His eyes captivated Francis, drew him in. He instinctively knew that these were not the eyes Arthur showed to the outside world, that what was in these eyes at this moment was longing for a time long passed and would not come again. Longing for someone to understand, and knowledge to share with them. And with a deep ache in his heart, Francis knew that he was not this person. In whatever ways he helped Arthur; he could not aid him now. He, too, had hunted the witches as feverishly as the rest of them, had felt relief as they burned, had laughed as they tried to prove their innocence.

Maybe Arthur's country, too, had done this, but not Arthur. He burned with them, cried as one by one; thousands of his spiritual kin's ashes were blown away by the wind. Arthur had hated them with a passion, hated the witch-hunters, hated those blinded by ignorance and fear, but had hidden it. Because, after all, what would happen if one that sympathized with the witches was found and would not burn? He would be considered a witch for sure, and would be subjected to all sorts of torture, but wouldn't die. Francis could see all this in his eyes, and could see his regret- a remorse that was painful in its intensity- for not helping his fellows when he had the chance.

So Francis drew Arthur even closer, trying to meld the two of them and somehow ease the other man's pain by taking it upon himself. He had always viewed England's witchcraft as a simple eccentricity, nothing more. Just another quirk of the odd nation. He had not imagined, nor could ever have imagined, that Arthur- Not England, because England had committed atrocities as well- had such a passion for the otherworldly.

"Calm, _mon cher_, I'm here," Francis soothed, knowing full well that he could not say that things were alright, because they _weren't_, and they wouldn't ever be again. "I'm here." And Francis continued with his litany of soothing murmurs and rocked Arthur until his tears stopped.

"I-I'm sorry," Arthur hiccupped, "for ruining your sh-shirt." He closed his eyes, and curled into a tighter ball on Francis' lap.

"It can be washed, _mon cher_," Francis buried his face in Arthur's hair and smiled. "It was worth it if I could help you in the least. I never knew you felt like this, and a peek into the heart of _mon amour_ is worth a damp piece of clothing that will probably be out of style in a few months." He lifted Arthur's face from his knees and pressed a chaste kiss on his mouth.

"If you tell anyone," Arthur glared half-heartedly, wiping his eyes, "I will hunt you down. No other is to know of this."

"Of course,_ cher_." Francis stole another kiss. "If I may be so rude as to ask, what brought upon this mourning?" Arthur didn't answer, just curled closer into Francis' warm chest. "Alright, you do not have to tell me now. Just know that…" Francis struggled with an appropriate way to phrase what he wanted to say, so Arthur didn't accuse him of being a sentimental fool, or a 'bloody romantic frog.' "That if you ever need someone to confide in, or someone to hold you while you're crying, I am always there, and I always will be."

"Bloody romantic frog," Arthur muttered, and turned his face up for yet another soft kiss. "Thank you," he whispered softly against Francis' lips, so softly that Francis may have missed it if he was not clinging so intently onto the other's words.

"_Toujours_," Francis replied, love flowing from his voice and his eyes and his soft smile. "_Toujours_."

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Authoress' Random Ramble

Well, I try to write fluff and I write angst instead :P You know the deal, I own absolutely nothing (sadly), it warms my cold heart when you review, and I'm posting this at 1:26 in the morning and I really need to go take my contacts out so y'all better be grateful :D

less than three. less than three


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